THE SUMMONS
The broad streets of Washington City presented a lively scene as Dr.
Leonard McLean drove his car with increasing slowness down Connecticut
Avenue, crowded with government employees hastening to their offices.
The congestion was even greater than usual owing to the downpour of
rain as the drenched pedestrians swarmed around the street car stops in
their endeavor to board cars, already packed to their limit, and arrive
promptly at nine o'clock at their various destinations.
McLean slowed down to a stop within the fifteen feet limit prescribed
by law, as the street car ahead of him halted to take on passengers,
and watched with interest the futile efforts of the conductor to
prevent the desperate rush made by both men and women to get through
the car door at the same time. Suddenly, McLean discerned a familiar
face in the crowd before him and sounded his horn. The unexpected
"honk" created confusion among those unable to find even clinging room,
and the conductor, taking advantage of the diversion, signaled to the
motorman and the car sped onward.
"Hey, Leigh!" hailed McLean. "Leigh Wallace!"
Major Wallace glanced around and with a wave of his hand McLean
indicated the vacant seat in his roadster.
"Hop in!" he exclaimed, as Wallace hurried across the intervening space
between the car and the curbstone. "I'll give you a lift downtown,"
and, hardly waiting for Wallace to seat himself and close the door, the
busy surgeon released the clutch and the roadster sped down Connecticut
Avenue.
It was not until they were clear of traffic and were approaching
the intersection of Twenty-first Street and Massachusetts Avenue
that McLean realized his companion had not returned his greeting or
addressed a word to him since entering the car. Turning his head, he
eyed him unobtrusively. Wallace sat moodily staring ahead; his big
frame, slumped in the easiest posture, seemed to fill the broad seat of
the Packard. McLean took silent note of Wallace's expression and the
unhealthy pallor of his skin.
"Get any sleep last night?" he asked.
"Not much." Wallace drew out a leather wallet from an inside pocket
and produced a prescription. "The druggist refused to fill this again;
said I had to get another prescription. Beastly rot," he complained.
"Cost me a bad night."
The surgeon ran his eye over the prescription before pocketing it.
"It's a narcotic," he explained. "The druggists are not allowed to
refill. Next time you want one come to me. How long is it since you
left Walter Reed Hospital, Leigh?"
"Two months ago," was the laconic rejoinder. Wallace removed his hat
and passed his hand over his short-clipped hair. "I hope to report for
duty soon."
"Good!" McLean slowed down to make the turn from Twenty-first Street
into Massachusetts Avenue and as they drove westward Major Wallace for
the first time took notice of the direction in which they were heading
and that they were no longer on Connecticut Avenue.
"Aren't you going to your office, McLean?" he inquired.
"Not immediately. I have a professional call to make first. Are you in
a hurry?"
The question seemed superfluous and McLean smiled as he put it. The
major's apathetic manner and relaxed figure could not be associated
with haste.
"No," Wallace answered. "I promised to stop in and see Charles Craige
some time this morning; he's attending to some legal business for
me. Otherwise I have nothing to do. This killing time gets on my
nerves--look at that, now," and he held up a hand that was not quite
steady. "Take me on as chauffeur, McLean. I understand an engine;
shell-shock hasn't knocked that out of my head."
"Your head's all right, old man. I told you that when you were my
patient at Walter Reed," responded McLean cheerily. "A few weeks more
and--" He stopped speaking as they crossed the Q Street bridge into
Georgetown, then, stepping on the accelerator, he raced the car up the
steeply graded street and drew up in front of a high terrace.
"Hello, are you going to 'Rose Hill'?" demanded Wallace, wakened from
his lethargy by the stopping of the car. He had apparently been unaware
that McLean had left his last sentence unfinished. "Who is ill?"
"I don't know." McLean leaned back to pick up his instrument bag which
he carried in the compartment behind his seat. "My servant called to me
just as I was leaving home that I had been telephoned to come over here
at once. I didn't catch all she said. I suppose Kitty Baird is ill.
That girl is a bundle of nerves."
Wallace clambered out of the car so that his more nimble companion
would not have to climb over his long legs in getting out. As McLean
turned to close the door of his car, Wallace's hand descended heavily
upon his shoulder.
"What--who--who's that standing in the Baird's doorway?" he gasped. "A
policeman?"
McLean swung around and glanced up at the house. A long flight of
stone steps led up to the front door and a landing marked each break
in the terrace whereon grew rosebushes. It was the picturesque garden
which gave its name to the fine old mansion--Rose Hill. The mansion
had been built in colonial times when the surrounding land, on which
stood modern houses and the present-day streets, had been part of the
"plantation" owned by General Josiah Baird of Revolutionary fame. The
hand of progress had left the mansion perched high above the graded
street, but it had not touched its fine air of repose, nor diminished
the beauty of its classic Greek architecture.
Standing under the fanlight over the doorway was the burly form of a
blue-coated policeman.
"Yes, that's one of the 'City's finest,'" he laughed. "What of it?"
he added, observing his companion's agitation in astonishment. "The
policeman is probably taking the census; one called on me last
Saturday."
Wallace swallowed hard. "That's it," he mumbled, rather than spoke.
"You've hit it."
McLean, conscious of the bleak wind which accompanied the driving rain,
stopped to open the door of his roadster.
"Wait in the car, Leigh; I won't be long." Not pausing to see if his
suggestion was followed, McLean hurried up the steps.
Wallace plucked at the collar of his overcoat and opened it with
nervous fingers, mechanically closed the car door, and then with slow
reluctant feet followed McLean toward the mansion. He was breathing
heavily when he gained the surgeon's side, and the latter's surprised
exclamation at sight of him was checked by the policeman who had
advanced a few steps to meet the two men.
"Dr. McLean?" he asked, and as the surgeon nodded, added, "Step inside,
Sir." He touched his hat respectfully. "Is this gentleman with you,
Doctor?"
"Why, certainly." McLean glanced inquiringly at the policeman; the
latter's manner indicated suppressed excitement. "What's to pay,
Officer?"
"They'll tell you inside," waving his hand toward the open door. "The
coroner's there."
"Coroner!" McLean's bag nearly slipped from his hand; but before he
could question the policeman further, his name was called from the back
of the hall and he hurried inside the house. Coroner Penfield stood by
the porti�res in front of the library door.
"I am glad you could get here so promptly, McLean," he said. "Come
in," and he drew the porti�res to one side. McLean entered the library
hastily and continued to advance with his usual brisk tread until he
caught sight of a huddled figure in the throne-shaped chair.
"Good God!" he ejaculated and retreated a few steps. Recovering his
usual calm poise he walked around the tea table and examined the body.
When he straightened up and turned around, he found Coroner Penfield's
attention was centered on Major Leigh Wallace.
Wallace had followed McLean across the threshold of the library only,
and stood with his back braced against the doorjamb while his eyes
mutely scrutinized every movement made by the surgeon.
"Well?" he questioned, and McLean's stare grew intensified. If he had
not seen Wallace's lips move he would never have recognized his voice.
With difficulty Wallace enunciated his words. "Well--what--what is it?"
"It's a case of--"
"Sudden death." Coroner Penfield completed McLean's sentence.
In the silence that followed, a man who had been leaning over the
railing of the gallery which circled the library, watching them, walked
over to the stairs and came slowly down. At sound of his footsteps
McLean glanced up and recognized Inspector Mitchell of the Central
Office. He bowed courteously to the surgeon before addressing the
coroner.
"If it is all right, Dr. Penfield, we'll have the body removed," he
said. "My men are here."
"Certainly. Call them." Penfield turned to McLean. "I wanted you to be
present as I understand you attended Miss Susan Baird."
"Yes, I have been her family physician for years." McLean spoke with
an effort, his thoughts centered on one idea. "Where is Miss Baird's
niece, Miss Kitty Baird?"
His question went unanswered. Apparently Coroner Penfield and Inspector
Mitchell failed to hear him as they busied themselves in superintending
the removal of the body. McLean, after watching them for some seconds,
walked over to Wallace. The latter took no notice of him whatever, his
eyes remaining always on the tea table. McLean scanned his drawn face
and listened to his labored breathing with growing concern. Whirling
around, he opened his bag, took out a flask, detached its silver cup
and poured out a liberal allowance of whisky, then, darting out of
the library, he returned an instant later with some water in a glass.
Slightly diluting the whisky, he thrust the cup against Wallace's
white lips.
"Drink that," he ordered, and Wallace followed his peremptory command.
"Now, sit down," and he half-pushed, half-supported him to a large
leather covered lounge.
"I--I," protested Wallace. "I'm a bit undone, McLean," and he raised
miserable, apologetic eyes to his friend.
"Sure, it's enough to bowl any one over," McLean acknowledged, with a
sympathetic pat. "Even the strongest--"
"Which I am not," supplemented Wallace. The powerful stimulant was
taking effect, and he spoke with more composure. "Have you--can you--"
he hesitated, and cast a sidelong glance at McLean. "Can you learn any
details about Miss Baird and how she came to be lying in that chair?"
It was impossible for him to suppress a shudder as he indicated the
empty throne-shaped chair. "She was dead, wasn't she?"
"As dead as a door nail." His question was answered by Inspector
Mitchell, who had returned in time to catch their last few remarks.
"Can you give me any facts about Miss Baird, Doctor McLean?"
"Only that she was a lifelong resident of Georgetown and a well-known
character--known for her eccentricities, that is," responded McLean.
"Her death has come as a great shock to Major Wallace and to me,
Inspector."
"When did you see her last?" inquired Mitchell. His question was
addressed to both men, but it was McLean who answered it after a
moment's thought.
"She was in my office on Friday."
"Was she ill?"
"No. For a woman of her age she was remarkably free from organic
trouble," replied McLean. "In fact, she did not come to consult me
about herself at all, but to ask for a tonic for her niece. By the way,
where is Miss Kitty Baird?"
At the question Wallace raised his head and eyed the surgeon intently
for a second, then dropped his eyes as the other felt his gaze and
turned toward him.
"Where is Miss Kitty Baird?" Mitchell repeated the surgeon's question.
"Blessed if I know."
"What!" McLean started from the chair where he had seated himself a
moment before. "Do you mean to say that Miss Kitty Baird is not in her
bedroom?"
"I do." Mitchell shook a puzzled head. "And she isn't in any part of
the house. My men and I have searched it thoroughly. We found only the
dead woman in the house and a live Angora cat."
McLean stared at the inspector in dumbfounded amazement. A gurgling
sound from the sofa caused him to look at Wallace. The major, with
purpling face, was struggling to undo his collar.
"Air! Air!" he gasped, and before the surgeon could spring to his aid,
he sank back unconscious against the sofa pillows.